3
But that only lasted for the winter months.
Over the spring break of my junior year, my brother went on a trip to a
beach with the friend I didn’t care for. He was gone for several days, and when he
came back, he was never the same.
When I would ask him if he wanted to hang out with me after that, I would
often have to shake him to get his attention, even when he wasn’t wearing
headphones.
A couple weeks later my parents found various tobacco products in his bag.
We were sixteen, and I was angry.
My father had been a smoker for decades. He smoked cigarettes every day
until the doctors told him it was killing him. My father, who in my childhood eyes
was the strongest and greatest man on earth, was sick.
I was mad because my brother knew all of that. He knew it, and still he
chose to smoke, dip, and chew. My best friend in the world was choosing the very
thing that stole the vitality from my father’s lungs.
We hoped that this was just a one-time thing, that this was just an act of
teenage curiosity. It wasn’t. My brother was repeatedly found with tobacco among
his possessions.
He spent much of that year grounded.
The following Christmas, when I was in my senior year, I got my brother a
present. It was a Betty White shirt that I found at the mall. I thought it was funny
so, to make my brother laugh, I sent him on a hunt for it with a series of riddles.
When he found it, he tore into the wrapping only to discover that the box
underneath had been duct taped shut.
I giggled as my brother took keys from his pocket and cut a hole through the
box. He ripped through it to find another wrapped box within, and I couldn’t stop
myself from cackling as my mother and father also started laughing.
My brother let out a giggle, and my heart was full. After two more boxes he
finally made it to that dumb shirt that said, “Nobody messes with Betty F#####g
White!”
That evening I hung out with my brother. I ate my orange in a separate
room, but I had a blast all the same. I had gotten to play with my best friend.
Towards the end of the school year and all through the summer I worked my
first job at a grocery store. I started as a courtesy clerk. My job was to bag
groceries, collect carts, and keep the store clean. I was proud of that job.
I remember my dad laughing when I complained about how much of my
first paycheck was missing.
“That’s taxes buddy,” he said, still laughing. “Get used to it, that’s how it’ll
be for the rest of your life.”